


Ruined Rice and Found Friends

by espark



Category: The Battle of Polytopia (Video Game)
Genre: Competition, Duelling, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 16:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espark/pseuds/espark
Summary: How the Ai-Mo tribe overcame the odds and won the tribe duels against Bardur





	Ruined Rice and Found Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by people and activity on the Polytopia discord group.
> 
> https://discord.gg/polytopia

The abbot stood on the stone parapet, watching the first sprays of pink and gold ignite from beyond the Polomiian Sea. “One day closer to our doom,” he thought.

The monastery gong sounded three times, low and strong, once for each of the holy attributes of mindfulness, tugging him away from the fiery horizon and toward Serenity Square. He turned to see his fellow monks calmly gathering for the morning communal meditation. Their light-blue robes looked less like the bright blue of a clear sky and more like the dull gray of stone. 

He usually offered some words of wisdom to guide that day’s meditation session. What was he going to tell them? Sharing his fears about the upcoming duels would only spread his doubts and strengthen their opponents. But speaking false encouragement was shameful and he strove to be honest in all things. Could he say nothing and allow their own inner thoughts to guide their prayers? Surely his silence would make them suspicious. He took a deep breath and took his place at the front of the monks.

“Peace be with you,” the abbot said, bowing to the group.

“And with you,” the monks replied in chorus, their bows as smooth as their scalps.

“You all know something of what to expect from Zoy’s duels. So far, we have done well against the bird-worshipers and road-rascals.” The abbot turned to a griseled monk who wore a rumpled robe and permanent scowl. “Thanks to the wisdom and guidance of the All-Seeing, we have overcome suffering and followed the path of enlightenment. I pray that, together, we will find the wisdom and insight to survive the next round.”

After bowing again, the abbot sank down into blossom pose, closed his eyes, and lengthened his breaths. He tried to focus on the steady tide of air moving in and out of his body, but his thoughts kept drifting to the duels and their next opponents, the Bardur. For years, the Bardur had dominated the region. They thrived in the harsh, snowy forests, taming bears and destroying the ancient woods. Only the ignorant or the foolish disputed the mighty Bear-fondlers ability to quickly overpower their opponents. What chance did he and his monks stand against that sort of overwhelming power?

The sound of pottery shattering against stone, followed by an equally sharp “Fuck!” broke the abbot’s attempt at meditation. 

The abbot opened his eyes and he saw that everyone else’s attention had also been grabbed by the crash from inside.

He considered ignoring the interruption, but knew that the best way to free the group’s attention, was for him to leave and investigate. He stood and made a flicking gesture twice, as if brushing the monk’s focus away from the sound, and walked toward the monastery kitchen.

Inside the low stone room that served as both kitchen and apothecary, the abbot gasped when he saw golden grains spilled across the floor and exclaimed, “Not the Zebasi rice!”

This rare rice had been a gift from the Zebasi Manza and was rumored to bestow strength and vigor on whoever ate it. He’d planned used to serve it the monastery duelists tomorrow, to give them an edge in their matches. The abbot didn’t need this disappointment, not on top of his worries about the duels.

The ruined rice was a bad omen.

The new boy who had made the mess -and grabbed everyone’s attention with his shouting - straightened up from the floor where he’d been gathering the golden grains with his bare hands. “Abbot, it wasn’t me. I mean, it wasn’t my fault. Shit.” The boy glanced at the carpet of gleaming rice spread from hearth to pantry. He swallowed hard, “Well, it was my fault, but...” 

Like the morning rains on the Plains of Conquest, his feeble excuses dwindled to nothing. 

He chided the boy, “This monastery has little enough resources. What with the poor pepper harvest and the glutted wool market, we do not have food to waste.”

“What if I swept it all up and put it in a different pot. We could still eat it. I’m sure it’d taste fine.”

The abbot struggled to control his anger and disappointment. “You should know it is disrespectful to serve food that has been on the floor. To even suggest such a thing is dishonorable, boy.”

The idea to ask the Zebasi Manza for more of the legendary rice flitted into his mind, but he immediately rejected it. Asking for a second gift would be rude. And even if the Manza would give him more, there wasn’t time before the duels started. 

The new boy stood still, defiance tight on his face. “My name isn’t boy. My real name is…”

The abbot cut him off, “We don’t use our family-given names here. You should know that, too. You shall be known as Newboy until you redeem yourself.”

Part of the abbot wanted to punish the clumsy boy further, but he remembered the fifth transcendence, ‘Quench the fire of anger with compassion.’ 

So instead he said, “I know you did not mean to ruin the rice, but you must still learn a lesson from your carelessness. Shall we sow the seed of mistake into the bounty of experience?” 

The boy looked down at his feet. “Yes, abbot.”

The abbot thought about what kind of redemption would be suitable. Something both onerous and memorable. 

Alarmed voices from outside drifted in from the front gate. “You can’t bring him here! He’s a foreigner!”

“But he is injured,” someone else said.

The abbot looked out the window, past the chickens pecking at the bare earth, to see an Ai-Mo warrior supporting a drooping man in brown robes. 

Another problem for him to deal with.

The abbot turned back to the new boy and snapped, “Clean up the rice, but do not use a broom. Every grain must be picked up, one by one.”

“Yes, abbot.”

Then the abbot went to the front gate to sort out the next mess.

***

It turned out not to be just one foreigner, but a string of them. One after another, the hungry, the tribe-less, and the bedraggled duelists, Zebasi, Hoodrick, even a Xin-xi. All were looking for shelter and healing. The abbot turned no one away. 

After the last refugees were welcomed and assigned quarters, the abbot felt drained. Days like these overwhelmed him. He was not an outgoing man by nature and usually preferred his own company to those of others. He’d joined the Ai-Mo to find peace and tranquility, not chaos and pressure. A rumble in his stomach reminded him that he’d missed the morning meal, so he headed for the kitchen, hoping for some respite from his responsibilities as much as for food.

Relief filled the abbot when he found the kitchen empty, other than a stray chicken who must have snuck in from the yard. He shooed the bird outside saying, “You best get out before someone gets inspired to make chicken stew.”

He found a pot of spiced beans on the hearth and poured himself a bowl. He drank in the rich stew as well as the quiet of the empty kitchen.

Then it struck him. The floor was clean.

The new boy couldn’t possibly have picked up all the rice. Working nonstop, it would have taken anyone days if they had followed the abbot’s instructions to pick each grain up, one by one. The boy must have disobeyed him. The abbot hated having to discipline his people, but rules had to be followed and order maintained.

He set down his empty bowl and went to find and confront the boy.

***

The new boy wasn’t in the vegetable garden or the library, so the the abbot went to the training area. Several pairs of bald monks were sparring, sweat streaming down their faces under the high sun. A group of monks with long wooden staves stood in a circle, their faces pinched in mind bending concentration. Another group was practicing with bows. A third group was down in the corral, although they seemed to be fending off bites from a particularly stubborn llama rather than practicing riding. The abbot called out to the exasperated riders, “Get out of range of her teeth. Sometimes it is wiser to give your opponent space, than press in close.”

But the new boy was not there. Neither was the All-Seeing.

The abbot approached the herbalist who was watching two monks sparring. The tiger-faced monk was swinging a club at a pink-haired monk who blocked the blow with a loud “Oof.”

The herbalist called out, “Remember. Think about the next move your opponent is going to make and what you move you’re going to make after that to counter.”

“Why are you leading training? Where is the All-Seeing?” the abbot asked the herbalist.

“The All-Seeing left.”

“What? When?”

“A couple hours ago. He was talking about the old days and wishing he could still fight, and then, suddenly, he just got that look in his eye. He muttered something about real life, and took off.”

If was common for monks to leave the monastery from time to time. Some visited other lands, some went to war, others left the monastic life altogether for careers or family. The abbot himself had taken a week long pilgrimage to the Ocean of Struggle last month, but it was customary to tell the rest of the monks when you would be leaving and for how long.

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No. I thought you knew.”

The abbot’s mind whirled with confusion. What had happened to the All-Seeing? The only way they had won the duels against the Yaddak was because of the All-Seeing’s experience and tactical advice. This changed everything. 

He needed help. The abbot turned to the herbalist, “If the All-Seeing doesn’t come back in time, what do you think we should do?”

The herbalist shook his head, “To be honest, we are in no shape to fight the Bardur. Even with the All-Seeing, we’re no match for them.”

“We did well against Yadakk.”

“The Bardur are different, more aggressive. Behind all those muscles they like to flex are some real fighting abilities. You saw how they crushed the Zebasi. Those fighters we took in this morning were beat up badly, psychologically as much as physically. Their defeated spirits show Bardur’s strength as much as their injuries.”

“What else can we do?” The abbot asked, “I could ask Zoy for more time to train.”

“I hate to say it, abbot, but more time would only delay the inevitable. What we need are more skilled fighters.”

***

The abbot stood on the stone parapet, watching the herd graze in fading evening light. He wondered if he would have been happier up on those rocky hills, wandering with the llamas, alone except for the clouds in the sky and the wind in the trees. What would happen if he just disappeared like the All-Seeing had? Surely someone else would take his place and the monastery would continue. 

“Abbot.” A timid voice called from Serenity Square. It was the new boy.

The abbot’s exasperation coalesced into stream of accusations, all leveled at the boy. “Where have you been? Why weren’t you training? And how did you clean up all the rice so fast? Don’t tell me you did it all by yourself with your bare hands.”

“I went down to the general square. I have friends there, from other tribes. And, no, I didn’t clean it up by myself with my bare hands, I had help.”

“So you disobeyed me?”

“What? No. You said each grain had to be picked up, one by one, and I couldn’t use a broom.” 

“Then how did you clean it up?”

“I let in the chickens.”

The abbot remembered the chicken he’d found in the kitchen and imagined the chicken transforming into a warrior chicken, with bulging wings and a razor sharp beak. The ridiculousness of it broke something inside him. The abbot couldn’t help himself as laughter poured out of him, as unstoppable as the summer monsoons.

The boy frowned in confusion. “What’s so funny? All the rice got picked up and I figured it’d be a nice treat for the hens, especially after we lost the cock to Luxidoor.”

“I think you may have created some very powerful chickens. I wonder what the Luxidoor would say if they got one of our chickens now. They’d win all their cock fights.” The abbot laughed again.

The boy’s face softened, reflecting the abbot’s mirth, if not really understanding it. “Yeah. I’ll round up all my friends from the general square and we’ll cheer for the Ai-mo chicken.”

The abbot’s let out a sigh, a smile lingering on his face. “No, you don’t understand. I meant …”

Then, like an arrow shot unexpected from the fog, an idea struck him. 

“I know what to do. I know what to do,” the abbot said excitedly. “How we can win the duels.”

“You do?”

“But we’ll need Zoy’s permission.”

“Permission for what?”

“And we’ll need proper clothing.” The abbot turned to the boy, “Go down to the basement and count how many blue robes we have in storage and get them cleaned and ready for tomorrow.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Abbot, you’re not going to send the chickens to the duels in tiny blue robes are you?”

“Something like that.”

***

The next morning, the abbot woke to a delicious aroma, something spicy, buttery, and a smell he couldn’t quite place. After his ablutions, he found the dining hall filled with monks and foreigners, laughing, talking, and eating. Everyone in the room seemed to glow with health and vigor. 

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the All-Seeing sitting at a table with a new group of grizzled foreigners. The All-Seeing noticed him and waved him over.

“Glad to have you back, All-Seeing. I was worried there for a moment.”

“I went to find some war buddies of mine. I thought we could use some more advisors during the duels.” The All-Seeing introduced the men around him, a hermit from the Melulyian Shores who’d defeated three giants single-handedly, a champion from The Star Of Struggle tournament, and an old shrimper who used to command an entire naval fleet. All had grudges against the Bardur and all were willing to coach the monks during their duels.

“Abbot,” one of the Zebasi warriors called out, “these are the best fried eggs I’ve ever eaten.” 

“I know, right?” a Yadakk agreed, “I feel like I could take on any challenge today.”

The new boy appeared from the kitchen, a proud grin on his face. He beckoned to the abbot and whispered conspiratorially, “This morning, the chicken coop was bursting with the biggest, roundest, glowingest eggs you’d ever seen. I decided to fry one of them up in some chilli oil and it was the best thing I’d tasted in months. So I decided to cook all them eggs up.” 

The boy held out a bowl of steaming with fluffy, golden eggs. “Here, you try.”

The abbot took the bowl and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Good work, Newboy. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, one more thing,” the boy said reaching for a scroll in his robe. “A message came from Zoy.”

The abbot took the scroll and read it, a smile slowly stretching the corner of his mouth. “When our guests ares done eating, I want you to send them to see me, one by one, in Serenity Square. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure, abbot.”

“Oh, one more thing,” the abbot said, sitting down at the dining table.

“Yes?”

“I think it is time you choose a new name for yourself.” Then the abbot indulged in a mouthful of rich, spicy eggs.

***

That evening, the abbot lead his monks into the wooden arena that Zoy had created for the duels. The All-Seeing and the other veterans were interspersed between the monks behind him, positioned to fight their own duels and coach as needed. Above, the starless purple sky hinted at the fading sun beyond the arena walls. Coarse sand clawed at the abbot’s bare feet and the stink of burning pitch from dozens of torches made the abbot’s nose wrinkle. The abbot ached to be back in Serenity Square, away from this oppressive spectacle, but the abbot held his place at the front of his tribe, shoulders down, chin high, and palms together.

The menacing growl of a bear announced the arrival of the Bardur. The abbot took a deep breath to steady himself as horned-helmed fighters took their places across from the wiry monks, jeering “Ai-mo Bade” and “Stay winning.” The abbot refused to let their taunting shake him, taking a deep breath and keeping calm. By the time all the fighters had taken their places, the blue-clad duelists outnumbered the Bardur black two to one.

The Bardur chief scowled and turned to Zoy, “Hey, Zoy. Why are there so many of them?”

“They know how to make friends,” Zoy answered with a shrug.

The chief took another look at the duelist around the abbot and protested, “Hey. That one’s a Zebasi. I recognize that melon-fucker.” 

Another Bardur cried out, “And that one is a Vengir. I beat him before.” 

“That’s not saying much,” a member of the crowd jeered, “everyone’s beaten a Vengir!”

Zoy called out, “Anyone wearing Ai-Mo blue and living in the monastery can duel on the Ai-Mo’s behalf.”

“It don’t matter,” the chief boasted, “We beat them before, and we can do it again.” 

Then the chief glared at the abbot, looking him up and down with malice. “You imma rip into little peaceful pieces.”

The abbot kept his face neutral and answered, “May your inevitable disappointment today carry you forward on your path to enlightenment and tranquility.”

The chief squinted at the abbot a moment, then to his tribe, he shouted, “Bardur, charge!”

The chief took a step forward. His massive cudgel rose in both hands. The abbot could tell the Bardur expected him to make a move, but the abbot remained still, allowing him time to think.

When the chief attacked, his thick wooden weapon aimed for his bare head, the abbot was ready. He deflected the blow with his staff, taking the hit in his shoulder, and giving the abbot an opening to strike at the Bardur’s unprotected solar plexus. The chief gasped in shock, unable to draw breath. Before the chief could make another attack, the abbot stuck the warrior again, this time in the knees, and the Bardur toppled, like a chopped tree.

Zoy called out “One for Ai-mo, let it be noted.”

Not ready to celebrate yet, the abbot surveyed the arena. He saw a bardur rider on a bear charge an Ai-mo archer, trampling the azure-clad monk flat. A smaller monk was talking quietly to a Bardur with a shield, the defender listening intently, nodding, then laying down her shield. A Queztali, dressed in Ai-mo robes, dropped under a rain of black arrows.

“Two for Bardur, one for Ai-mo, let it be noted.”

One of the priors faced a hulking Bardur with a barbed mace and angry blue eyes. “Crane stance or Orchid?” the prior called out to the All-Seeing. 

“Plum blossom, plum blossom!” the All-Seeing shouted back.

The prior nodded, and dropped to a crouch, ducking under the mace, and slamming both fists into the Bardur’s right ankle.

A llama rider rounded on Bardur archer and one of the advisors, the shrimper, called out, “Don’t ride straight at him. You might take an arrow in the arm, but then you can dash away.” The rider nodded, pulling her mount in a zig-zag, getting in a hit then dashing off, out of range.

“Two more for Ai-mo,” Zoy said.

The duel continued, a blur of limbs, weapons, and wisdom. The Ai-Mo score rose like smoke from the arena torches, fueled by fortified bodies and ignited by coaching. Even the new boy took down a lanky opponent, with guidance from the All-Seeing.

Finally, time ran out and Zoy signaled for the competition to end. Although some of the less experienced monks had been defeated, most of the Bardur had surrendered. Many Ai-Mo, both old and new, hadn’t even gotten a chance to fight or find an opponent before time ran out.

The abbot walked over to the boy. “Well done. Have you come up with your own name for the rest of us to call you?”

The boy nodded and opened his mouth to answer, but then Zoy announced, “I pronounce the winners of this round of tribe duels to be … the Ai-Mo.”

A cheer went up from the monks and the assembled crowd.

The abbot took a deep breath, proud of his tribe and their allies. They had done it.

Then, the sharp smell of salt and palm oil hit his nose. The abbot turned to see the Kickoo Kahuna approach, his slick black hair tied back immaculately, his bright green robes flowing in waves as he moved, and his smirk growing with every step.

“We look forward to facing you in the finals, Kahuna,” the abbot said, keeping his tone neutral.

“We’ll face you, but no more cheating.”

The Abbot stood in a defiant silence. “ We did not cheat,” the abbot retorted, his mind whirling with what the Kickoo might possibly accuse them of. He’d gotten permission from Zoy to include the fighters from the other tribes. Could the Kahuna have heard about the infused eggs?

“Zoy,” the Kahuna said, “You saw what they were doing. Those advisors were practically holding those monks’ hands, fighting for them. These are supposed to be individual duels.”

“Good point,” Zoy said. Then he declared. "From today forward, coaching is forbidden and punishable by banishment." 

Shock shattered the abbot’s usual steadfast serenity. Did Zoy really mean that? No more advice or training from the All-Seeing or the other veterans? Without veterans leading the less skilled warriors, they would never stand a chance against the powerful fish fondlers.

Once everyone had left the arena and the Kahuna had boarded his battleship, the abbot returned to his favorite meditation spot overlooking the dark Polomiian sea. 

"What shall I do..." he thought to himself before closing his eyes and sinking into the darkness.


End file.
